Читать книгу The Risk of Returning, Second Edition - Shirley Nelson - Страница 21

When my alarm went off at 5 A.M., the foreboding was still there. I had to deal with it, and did, under the tepid stream of the shower. Facts were still the answer, I told myself. I pictured them as a little collection of hard objects I could pack in my suitcase or bury in the ground and leave behind. Then back to Boston, like it or not. I made that a mental contract, with the date: Saturday, August 22, 1987. Signed it.

I helped myself to a quick breakfast in the quiet kitchen, the family still asleep. I wrote them a note of thanks and put it on the table under the saltshaker. The maid arrived while I was there. I gave her a tip, a little wad of quetzales, which she accepted shyly, slipping it into the band of her skirt, still refusing to look me in the eye. On the way out I whispered adiós to the parrot, who lifted her head from under her clipped wing and hoarsely reminded me of who she really was.

Outdoors I could hardly see for the fog. It was not raining; it was as if the air had turned to water. It settled in a layer on my head and face, and the soles of my shoes squeaked on the wet street. Catherine was waiting for me in her jeep at the curb, the motor running and the windshield wipers carving an arc in the collected dew. She hadn’t exaggerated its age—an old Willys that had seen many moons, its once red body now a nasty brown. The passenger door was jammed shut. She signaled me to stand back, then gave it a hard kick. It popped open. I dropped my luggage and hat in the back beside a suitcase and her familiar woven tote bag.